


Come Go With Me

by Mademoiselle_Kitty



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:57:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11417484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mademoiselle_Kitty/pseuds/Mademoiselle_Kitty
Summary: Happy McLennon day!





	Come Go With Me

6 July 1957

"I don't know, Ivy. It's really hot out, and Da's been threatening to belt me if I don't do my chores again..."

In reality, Paul simply doesn't feel like wasting his Saturday on some boring church fete. It's true he's been avoiding his chores, and it definitely is blistering. But those are just excuses for not having to go see this John bloke and the group Ivan wants him to meet.

"But the Quarrymen..."

"I know," Paul interrupts, his patience waning by the second. He could be sitting in that deck chair he can see through the kitchen window right now, practising the guitar. His cousin recently showed him a new chord he hasn't gotten quite right yet, and then there's that song he's been working on. "Can't we do it some other time?"

Ivan noisily empties the glass of lemonade he's been nursing, a gesture Paul recognises for what it is: a way to hide his disappointment for breaking yet another agreement. When Ivan's face emerges, his clownish smirk is plastered all over it, even though Paul can see it's fake. He's the master of forced smiles, after all, so he knows to look at the eyes first. Ivy's aren't smiling.

"Alright, fine. Go'ead, then."

He hasn't even finished saying the words before Ivan's dark, nearly black eyes begin to sparkle. "You'll love them, I know you will. John's really good, and..."

"Yeah, I got it, mate. He might let me join, You've only told me a million times before," Paul chuckles as he grabs his white sports coat. It still smells of cigarette smoke and there's a slight hint of stale sweat in there, too. He did, after all, work up quite a sweat on his date the night before. Or rather, after the date, he recalls with a vague smile as he slips into the jacket after nabbing some of his Da's aftershave to mask the smell, dragging a comb through his DA as he follows Ivan out the door where he's hit by a wall of thick, unmoving, stifling summer heat. This John better be every bit as good as Ivy says.

By the time they cycle up to the church that's been decked out in colourful strings of flags for the occasion, Paul is seriously wondering why he allowed his soft side to get the better of him. He's dripping, and what's worse: his hair is starting to sag. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he throws a cheeky wink at a group of giggling girls. Not his type, but when worse comes to worse, they'll do, he reckons.

Following Ivan's example, he parks his bike against a tree and looks around. So far, everything looks exactly the way Paul expected: suburbian, bland, nothing to get excited about. With a bored expression on his face, he fixes his hair as best as the weather will allow whilst Ivan does the same. DA firmly back in place, for now, Paul casts his school friend a sceptical look.

"You said this would be fun."

"It will be, you'll see. Come'ead."

Hands buried in his pockets, Paul decides to follow. He's there now, and he doesn't much feel like cycling all the way back straightaway. The least he can do is get himself a drink, maybe see if one of the many girls here is up for a knee-trembler behind the church, and have a look at that group like he promised Ivy. If they're good, his day won't be a complete loss. If they're bad, then he can finally forget all about this mythical John and his brilliant skiffle group.

The moment they make their way around the church hall, Paul can hear music. Loud, wild.... noise, for lack of a better description. Once they clear the building and step onto a field lined with trees and bushes, he can see the source of the disturbance. For a second, Paul stops in his tracks.

Atop some sort of cart which really isn't big enough to hold them, is a group of six lads: a drummer, a tea-chest bass player, a washboard player, a banjo player, and two guitarists. The music they produce is bad, to put it mildly, but there's an energy which draws Paul in. As he gets closer, his attention is drawn by what seems to be the leader: a beefy bloke with auburn hair and a red plaid shirt, who's singing and playing with such vigour, Paul fears the lad might hurt himself. Or worse: that poor guitar, which only appears to have four strings anyway.

Paul doesn't know why, but he can't tear away his gaze somehow. He just stands there, several feet from the improvised stage, transfixed by the lead singer who sometimes looks in his direction, though he doesn't appear to actually see him. A rough thump in the arm reminds Paul that Ivan is standing right next to him, shouting at him over the music.

"Told you they were great, didn't I? That's John, in the red shirt. Do you like him?"

"He's alright, I guess," Paul yells back without taking his eyes of the singer, who's just made up some new words to replace the lyrics to 'Come Go With Me'. Paul suspects he doesn't actually know the right words but that's alright; the ones this John bloke replaced them with are much funnier anyway.

He barely even notices the performance drawing to a close. He's been too caught up in observing the Quarrymen's front man. There's something about him. He plays his chords all wrong, and his technique is so terrible he only has three strings left by the time the group jumps off the lorry, but his showmanship is incredible. There are other things Paul noticed. Things he doesn't really want to give too much thought. It's probably nothing, anyway. The reason for his excitement has got to be something simple, like recognising someone with the same passion for rock 'n roll he has, Paul reckons.

"Let's go say hi," Ivan says, his voice still loud from yelling.

"Should we? I mean, I don't want to intrude."

By means of an answer, Ivan grabs Paul's sleeve and drags him towards the church's annexe. Though they're exactly the same age, Ivy is several inches taller than Paul, an advantage he only too happily uses when it suits him, such as now. Paul considers protesting the way he's being manhandled, but since he kind of wants to meet John anyway, he allows himself to be pulled to where the Quarrymen just disappeared. "Don't be daft, Paul. I already told John I'd bring you. He doesn't like to be stood up."

It's dark inside. At least, compared to outside, it is, and Paul's eyes need a few moments to adjust before he can see properly. Not as sure of himself as usual, he's slowed to a halt and now stands several feet into the room whilst Ivan moves along towards the group that's sat somewhere in the middle of the room. Paul's eyes dart around, taking in the details: there's a piano in the corner near a stage, a podium pushed to the side, and some plastic fold-up chairs casually littering the empty space, most of which occupied by the lads who all seem to be hanging onto every word their leader says.

"Alright, Ivy? Did you watch the show, then? What did you think?"

"Alright, John," Ivan responds in kind. "Not bad, son. Nice save on those words. Forgot 'em again, did you?"

A burst of raucous laughter drowns out John's reply, but it has to be positive, because a moment later, he offers Ivan a beer and opens one for himself too, casually tossing the empty one he'd been holding aside. Paul wishes he felt as comfortable around these people. He isn't shy, not at all, but he does feel like the odd man out, here. Especially now that he's being ignored. John must've seen him by now, he's been looking in his direction enough, but he hasn't given the slightest hint of acknowledgement. Paul doesn't like being treated like air but just as he's about to turn around and leave, he hears his name.

"That's Paul over there. You know, my mate I've told you about?"

Several faces turn to face him. One of the lads raises a hand in a jovial sort of half-wave. "Eh, up, Paul!"

"Alright, Len." Trying to look casual, Paul approaches the group. He'd noticed his schoolmate before, but he'd been so focused on John, he'd all but forgotten Len was there as well. Then again, he had his tea-chest bass had been hidden from view more than half the time anyway. Gathering his courage, Paul pulls himself up to his full height and addresses the group leader. "Hi, I'm Paul. Paul McCartney."

"Hello... Paul." The derogatory way in which his name is uttered threatens to crumble Paul's composure. He's beginning to dislike this John bloke now. First, he's ignored him, and now he's laughing in his face? What a jerk. But, Paul reckons, he'll see who'll be having the last laugh. He schools his face and heads John's gaze full-on.

"He looks twelve, Ivy," John drawls, his speech slightly slurred. "I'm not having any toddlers in the group."

"Ar eh, John. He's the same age I am, Paul is. And he's really good at guitar."

"Darrafact?" Once again, that beery breath which makes Paul slightly nauseous ghosts across his face. "Are you good on guitar... Macca?"

"I'm alright."

"Alright, eh? And what did you think of us, then?"

"You're alright."

"You're a regular wordsmith, aren't you," John snorts, a mixture of annoyance and something resembling respect beginning to form on his hard features. Up close, Paul can see the shape and colour of his eyes, and the strong lines and angles of John's face. Everything about his makes it clear that this isn't someone to cross.

Paul shrugs. The slight doesn't bother him. What is he expected to do anyway, give his answers in Latin? Because he can if that's what John wants.

"Well alright, then. Eric, give us your guitar, son. Let's see if there's more to this kid than just a pretty face."

Paul accepts the instrument, hoping he won't fuck up. He's sure enough of his abilities, even if he has only been playing for a few months, but he would've been happier playing his own guitar. At least then, he wouldn't have to play the chords upside-down. Still, he isn't going to let that deter him.

A lot more confident now that he is actually holding a guitar, he casually turns it 'round, ignoring the sniggers and whispered comments and takes his time to tune the strings just right. He catches Ivy's encouraging nod and, deciding to jump in head first, launches straight into 'Twenty Flight Rock'.

Throughout the first verse, Paul focuses on the frets, willing his fingers to do the exact opposite of what they'd gotten used to. It isn't the easiest thing, especially since this is one of the latest hit singles and he's only been practising it for a few days. Once he's sure he can fret the chords properly, Paul faces his audience and hams it up. This is what he does best: he's good at putting up a show and he knows it.

Once the song is done, he never gives his audience any time to respond, but goes right into 'Be Bop A Lula', giving it all he's got. Noticing the effect he has on the lads, Paul decides to end his audition with a Little Richard medley and then casually hands the guitar back to its rightful owner, who looks at the thing as if he's never seen it before.

"Not bad, son," John drawls finally, though his face clearly shows he's impressed. Suddenly, he doesn't seem like such a jerk to Paul anymore. "Play any other instruments?"

"A bit of piano," Paul says, jerking his head in the direction of the upright. "I'm not very good but I'll have a bash if you want."

"Bash away," John grins. He follows Paul to the piano, Ivan and the other Quarrymen in tow.

Paul noodles for a few moments, not quite sure which song to play, and then finds himself morphing into 'Whole Lotta Shakin Goin on' without really noticing it. He starts out simple and then allows his playing to become more frantic as the songs unfolds, using the opportunity to show off his best screams whilst he's at it. He's nearly finished the song when John leans over his shoulder and bangs out some extra chords, invading Paul's personal space in the process. He isn't sure whether to like it or hate it. Probably a bit of both.

"You're alright," John finally concludes, repeating Paul's words.

"Ta'."

"Well, we have to get ready for our next set now, so..."

Paul takes the hint. It wasn't very subtle anyway. "Yeah, sure, I have to go anyway."

"You're not sticking around for the evening show, then?" John almost seems disappointed, Paul notices.

"Chores to do, y'know. It's me Da's birthday tomorrow, so... Er... Yeah."

John nods. "Well, see you around, then."

Half wishing someone would ask him to stay, Paul turns on his heel and walks back into the oppressive heat of the late afternoon. There's a girl giving him the eye, who looks to be at least three years older than him. Again, not his type, but he follows her to the far end of the cemetery anyway.

Less than ten minutes later, he's on his bike, headed back to Allerton where his chores are waiting, wondering if he's ever going to be seeing John again.


End file.
